Flash Fiction Friday
Welcome back to Flash Fiction Friday, where every week I drop a short, sharp story. This one’s about Elvis — not Presley — a lad from Stonebridge who thought he was untouchable until life forced him to choose a different road.

The Tipping Point
Elvis was Jack-the-lad, dealing weed from his teens into adulthood. It started with a few mates, extra scratch in his pocket. Before long, half the Stonebridge estate in Harlesden knew his name. He was the skunk man, the go-to in crack city. And as his business grew, so did his ego.

He ran gear up to the Chelsea set. They’d sit round their dining tables, quaffing champagne and whispering scandals, hugging him when he arrived with his stash. Pretending they weren’t racist while boasting of their connections to Boris or Rishi. The wives gave him sly looks too, lips parted, eyes lingering on his crotch. Elvis clocked it all.

At first, he thrived on the money and the attention. The crinkle of notes, the control, the rush. But the shine wore off quick. His phone buzzed at all hours. Punters demanding deliveries in pub bogs, alleys, back seats of cabs. Someone always short, someone always trying to mug him off. He lived on edge, rowing with dealers, gangsters, and addicts who couldn’t pay.

His conscience caught up. He told himself he was helping mates, but he knew where it led—crack, smack, despair. He started to hate himself. One night, with his flat stinking of weed, he snapped. Enough.

The next morning, with shaking hands, he filled out a university application. Never thought he’d get in. A few months later, the letter came: accepted.

Books and coffee replaced baggies and Rizlas. Scribbling pens instead of rolling joints. At first, lectures felt slow and stifling, no buzz. But slowly, he got hooked. Philosophy, literature—things he’d never cared for—lit him up. He found mates who didn’t judge his past. Acceptance felt new, but right.

He cut the dealing, kept his head in study. That weight shifted off his shoulders. By graduation, he had a plan. Social work. Helping people where he’d once caused harm.

He swapped kilos in a council flat for case notes and rehab referrals. Graduated with honours. His family’s cheers as he crossed the stage nearly broke him. For once, pride didn’t feel like a lie.

Now, he dreams of writing a memoir: Rolling Joints to Rolling in Degrees.

Elvis never erased his past, but he used it. Proof that transformation isn’t just a word — it’s a fight. You claw out, or you don’t.